


All That Love, All Those Mistakes

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bittersweet, Homelessness, M/M, Mugging, Other, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>All that love, all those mistakes; what else can a poor man make?</em><br/>- Josh Ritter</p><p>After a life on the street and now a job at a run down community centre, Clint classifies himself as a hard-and-fast pessimist. Until he gets the stuffing knocked out of him by a local street gang and suddenly his life is like a bad rom-com, complete with the boy with the smile that makes his knees weak, the ever-helpful matchmaking best friend, gratuitous Abraham Lincoln, and one or more cracked ribs. Okay, maybe he's still a pessimist...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story contains discussions of prostitution, homelessness, and violence.

If Clint had thought that becoming a well-known presence at the community outreach centre would protect him from getting rolled by gangbangers in the street, well... he could add that to the list of things he'd been very, very wrong about.

He spent a half-second reflecting on this as he hit the pavement. It wasn't a pleasant place to find himself in suddenly, right there on the street between a boarded up storefront and a pawn shop with bars in the windows. A few kicks landed across his ribs and back and he wondered where he went wrong, because he obviously really fucking had.

But he didn't really have time to reflect much on the nature of choices and paths and all that because another heavy boot connected with his shoulder and he heard something snap. The pain made his stomach twist violently, and he fought back the urge to throw up. Clint curled in on himself and tried to shield his vital organs and his face from the worst of the attack.

"Give us your wallet, motherfucker," said a voice from somewhere above. There were a few guys, maybe three or four. It was hard to tell with the number of street lights that had burned out and never been replaced.

Clint didn't argue or waste any more time, he just tossed his wallet away. He got a glimpse of the kid who bent to pick it up, just a flash of fresh-faced thug in the gloomy light. He'd been in very similar situations when he was younger, though he had never resorted to mugging anyone (picking pockets was a lot less messy and didn't result in him getting punched in the face, which Clint liked a lot). He thought maybe he was finally safe and the kids would piss off, but there was a chuckle above him and it didn't sound amused.

"Shit, that's all you got, old man?"

He really shouldn't have expected that they would be happy with his wallet -- he knew how fucking poor he was. He threw his watch at the feet of the closest guy, because it was the only other thing he really had on him and even that was pretty cheap. His shoes were falling apart, useless to anyone, including him at this point.

He was mad that this was happening, mad that these stupid punks picked him out of all the possible targets, and mad that he was so mad. It was hard to be a poor kid, especially in a neighbourhood like this, and that Clint knew all too well. Besides, they were little more than boys and he couldn't wish anything worse on them than what they were already living through.

But come on, guys, really, what even made him look like a good target? He never would have hit a guy that dressed or walked like he did. He kept his head down and his shoulders tight, broadcasting a 'fuck you and fuck off' attitude to the world as clearly as he could.

He risked a glance up, but couldn't make out anything besides shadows and shapes, and the sharp edge of the closest dumpster. His vision was still blurred from the first hit, and even as he thought maybe the boys were leaving, another heavy boot connected with ribs again. Clint curled in on himself, waiting for the pain to take over and knock him out. Anything would be better than this.

Clint was more than capable of getting himself out of the scenario, if he had to, but it would mean fighting his way out, hurting these kids who were just as confused and scared as he had been before he found the light. He was starting to think he didn't have any other choice if he wanted to live. And he wanted that very much.

"Hey, hey now. Is that any way to welcome a stranger to Red Side? Leave him alone, guys."

Clint was beyond thankful for this mysterious stranger for the interruption. Maybe this was the distraction he needed to just slip away into the shadows without anyone else needing to get hurt.

"Fuck off, pretty boy, we're done here."

That was a good sign, Clint thought. He managed to get his hands underneath himself and tried to push off the ground. It worked, sort of, but he wondered briefly if it wouldn't be easier for him to die in a messy puddle. He steeled himself and got to his knees, and that's when he saw the gun.

Too many thoughts crowded through his mind at once. He saw the gun in the hand of the man closest to him, saw the amount of space between them, and calculated the time it would take him to disarm him. There were three other guys standing above him too, though, and he didn't think he had a chance to take them all out. Maybe three years ago, but not now, and certainly not injured like he was.

But the guy at the end of the alley who had come to his rescue didn't deserve whatever kind of trouble the kids thought they were stirring up. Poor guy was just trying to help Clint out and did not need to get shot for his efforts. Clint crouched and managed a quick snap kick to take out the guy holding the gun. It took enough out of him though, wincing through the pain in his chest. He made a vow to himself that if he lived through this, he was going to start working out again for real. It was a little embarrassing that these jerks got the jump on him.

He summoned up what was left of his energy after a twelve hour shift at the outreach centre and then the ass-kicking he'd just received and hit the guy in the wrist. The punk dropped the gun, either out of shock or actual pain.

Not giving him time to respond to his sudden lack of a firearm, Clint tackled the kid to the ground. The gun had gone skittering over the ground, somewhere behind them in the alley, and he hoped none of them were dumb enough to pick it up again. Also, he hoped he hadn't just punctured one of his lungs with a sharp piece of rib bone, because fuck, were his lungs ever burning.

Clint fought back the urge to take a deep breath, because he knew that would hurt him more than a temporary lack of oxygen would, and forced himself not to throw up. The pain in his... everywhere made it more than a little difficult to get back on his feet again, knees shaking and threatening to give out, vision blurred, head screaming.

There were still three more guys standing though, and all of them were reaching for pockets and waistbands. Not good. Not good at all. Clint sighed.

_I'm probably going to die,_ Clint thought. It was a thought he'd had a few times in the past, maybe more than a few, but it was the thought that -- oddly -- seemed to get him through the worst of times. Maybe being honest with himself about his chances made him just a little more bulletproof. Or accepting the inevitability of death took the fear out it. He sized up the remaining thugs and made a move towards the closest one, but the guy went down hard before Clint even touched him.

There was a shout, then it cut off abrupt into a gurgle and before Clint could even spin around again, all the muggers were whimpering on the ground.

In Clint's experience, if all the bad guys suddenly went away, it was usually because something bigger and badder was very close at hand. Absolutely the last thing Clint needed right now, but maybe he could make a break for it in the fray. Either that, or die swiftly. Those were the best options he felt like he could hope for.

But there was no scary beat cops, no eighteen foot tall drag queen with a machete, no mumbling bum with cold rage in his eyes. The only other thing around though was the lone guy who had stopped the mugging. In the low light, Clint could make out the outline of the guy dropped something on the ground. It clanged like metal -- Clint assumed trash can lid.

"Come on, let's get out of here, buddy. Unless you want to wait around until they get back up."

Clint followed the guy out of the alley, leaning only somewhat on the wall.

"You okay?" the guy asked once they were down the block and under one of the street lamps that actually still worked. Not many in this neighbourhood did, so it was real luck that there was any light at all nearby.

"Yeah," Clint said, lying through his teeth. He stood up a little straighter and got a good look at the guy for the first time.

He was tall and blond, and besides the tattered leather jacket that hung on him like it was being held together through sheer force of will only (with jeans to match), he looked like he was carved out of marble. Seriously statuesque, like an all-American Greek god. If that were a thing.

Clint wondered if maybe the last blow to the head had done some damage.

"Liar," the guy said, but he smiled and held out his hand for Clint to shake, so he obviously got why Clint would lie to him. "My name's Steve."

Clint shook his hand because he always thought you could tell as much about a person from their handshake as you could from going through their wallet. Steve had a firm, unwavering handshake and he met Clint's eyes with an easy smile. He was a guy with nothing to hide, or else he was very good at hiding it.

"Clint," Clint said, doing what he could to match Steve's cheer. He really wasn't feeling it. He was mostly feeling like he'd just had the shit kicked out of him. "Look, thanks a lot. I don't know what --"

Steve interrupted his gratitude with a wave and a grin to someone behind Clint's back. "Look what the cat finally dragged in. Could have used you five minutes ago, though."

"My apologies, I was having a little trouble of my own," said Steve's friend, coming up beside them and smiling broadly. 

Everyone around here was way too cheerful a lot for a bunch of scruffy dudes hanging out in the bad part of town at midnight on a weekday. Clint could only imagine the kind of shit that the dealers were selling now was even worse than he remembered, but Steve's friend was even bigger and buffer than Steve was, and nothing about them really screamed 'junkie' to him. They both seemed clean -- not extra friendly with soap or anything, bright and squeaky-clean personalities.

"Yeah, did you get it sorted out?" Steve stood a little straighter, tensed just a little bit. Clint starting mentally preparing himself to make a run for it, burning pain in every part of him or not, but the new guy shrugged easily and smiled again.

"Yes, and with no shed blood or broken teeth. Not like last time." That was apparently a funny inside joke or something, because Steve and his enormous friend laughed.

"We should get out of here before those guys get any more funny ideas." Steve looked over his shoulder which prompted Clint to do the same but the street was deserted.

"Thanks again," Clint said. He looked around, trying to get a feeling for which direction he needed to go to catch his bus. "Remind me which way to Carson Street? I'm feeling a little turned around here."

The big guy pointed down the street -- back past the alley full of thugs in varying states of unconsciousness. Not really what Clint wanted to hear.

"The T-line won't take you near any hospital, " Steve said. "You've got someone at home?"

Clint shrugged. "I'm fine."

Steve shook his head. "Not a chance. You're coming home with us so we can patch you up."

"Oh, that's... Thanks, but I'll be fine."

"Do it as a favour to me then," Steve said, all easy smiles and a helping hand.

Clint glanced between him and the other guy, trying to decide how he wanted to proceed.

Steve gasped and actually smacked himself in the forehead. "Oh, sorry, of course. Clint, this is Thor. Thor, this is our new friend, Clint. Some kids were roughing him up when I found him."

"Youths. Teenagers. A swarm of them," Clint corrected quickly. He'd been thinking of them as kids, but when he heard it out loud, it seemed a lot more ridiculous. "Not toddlers or anything."

"There are many miscreants on the Red Side," Thor said with a frown. "Are you hurt badly?"

"No, I'm fine, really," Clint said. It was taking him an extra few seconds to parse the words coming out of Thor's mouth. He couldn't quite place the accent he was hearing, but it was pretty obvious this guy was from out of town.

Now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off, he was able to take better stock of his injuries. Maybe a cracked rib or two, but he'd lived through those before and he was going to live through it this time, too. Mostly, he was just bruised and angry.

"Are you certain?" Thor asked. He didn't even try to hide his doubt and Steve was giving him a look that said the same.

"I'm fine!" Clint insisted. "The lack of gushing blood means I'm actually doing much better than the last time I got rolled, and I wasn't stabbed even a little. I swear, worst case scenario my ribs are cracked, and--"

"Cracked, like fractured." Steve interrupted him.

Thor nodded, extending Steve's logic. "Fractured, meaning broken." The two of them shared a very serious look and Clint could only wonder what that meant. Probably not good things for his plan of going home alone and not spending any more time in this creepy, rundown part of town. It was one thing to work here, another entirely to hang around after-hours.

"I'm not that badly hurt," Clint said. He had these same kinds of arguments with people at the community centre, going around in the same circles of 'let me help you,' 'no, I'm fine, don't worry yourself,' 'no, really, I insist,' 'I'm just fine, I don't need any help.' It's just that Clint was usually on the other end, so definitely a bit of a wake-up call. Did he annoy people this much when he prodded, too?

"You're coming with us," Steve decided. And that was that.

There wasn't a lot more Clint could say, other than maybe to threaten them with police involvement. They seemed like nice guys, but everyone on the street had one secret or another that they wanted to keep from the cops. But it was a forty-five minute trip to get home if the buses were running exactly on time. If Steve and Thor had a place closer where Clint could sit down to catch his breath and make sure he wasn't about to die, that was something he was interested in.

Steve didn't take his arm and help him along, though it was a near thing for moment there. He hovered instead, walking slow enough to keep right next to Clint, who knew he was seriously dragging at the moment. Thor walked behind them, talking animatedly about things Clint wasn't really paying attention to. Putting one foot in front of the other was getting trickier by the second as exhaustion caught up with him.

He spent the walk trying memorize the twists and turns. There were a lot of shady looking alleys and boarded up windows.

After what seemed like forever, Steve pointed to a building up ahead. "Here, we'll go in through the side." He turned into an alley and motioned for Clint to follow him. For one tense second, Clint was sure he was about to be in another fight for his life, but then Thor cracked a joke and he and Steve laughed and Clint didn't think he needed to worry about a getting murdered by guys who laughed like that -- so carefree and goofy sounding.

Yes, maybe the whole befriending and putting him at ease thing was part of their serial killer MO, or maybe they were cannibals or tag-team rapists or something more horrifying that Clint couldn't think of at the moment, but he had always been a huge proponent of taking stupid risks instead of the safe bet because it made his life easier, and so far, so good on that front.

Steve shouldered open a big steel fire door and then they were walking into a big empty warehouse. Clint shouldn't have been surprised. He had pegged them both as street people the moment he'd met them, but he had been kind of hoping for at least a shower. No big deal, he knew for a fact he had smelled worse before.

"Home sweet home," Steve said with a smile and shrug. Clint wasn't sure if it was supposed to be apologetic or what, but he nodded and smiled back.

"Urgh," he said after a second, reaching up to touch his face gingerly. "Black eye?"

"Oh yeah," Steve said. "It's already started swelling a bit. You can't tell?"

"I figured I couldn't see straight because it's dark in here."

"Or the concussion is scrambling your brain," Thor said brightly, coming up on Clint's other side and steering him slightly more one way.

"Or that." 

"Here's us," Steve said, pointing to a couple sheets hanging, blocking off a section of the warehouse floor. As his good eye adjusted to the lighting, he saw a few other similar set ups around the perimeter of the building and a few cardboard lean-tos and other piles of stuff that could be anything. There were other people here, too, a shanty town of street people, set up under the mostly-whole roof of the abandoned warehouse.

On the sheet in front of them, someone had taken a marker to it and written 'GO AWAY OR ELSE' in blocky letters. Underneath that 'welcome, knock first' and a sloppy smiley face.

"Kind of contradictory, isn't it?"

Steve laughed and pushed the sheet to one side, ushering Clint in. "Thor has a temper sometimes."

"And you made the amendment." Clint wasn't shocked. Steve seemed like a smiley face kind of guy.

"I believe the words have stopped many incidents. Detailed threats may be effective sometimes, but the human imagination left to its own devices can come up with things a thousand times scarier than I could threaten," Thor said. He adopted a spooky ghost voice. "Why should they go away? No one knows exactly, but you wouldn't like it."

Even Clint chuckled that time and he didn't protest when Steve pushed him down onto the hideous, slightly broken couch that smelled like something died and/or had babies on it recently.

"I am going to go pay our friend Hank," Thor said. "Please don't die in my absence."

"Hank lives next door," Steve said, like they lived in a nice brownstone or something, and not behind a dirty sheet. "He keeps an eye on things for us for a couple bucks a day. Nice guy, real smart kid."

Clint nodded. He'd been privy to a few similar arrangements, back in the day. He had a sharp eye, and pretty good aim with a rock or a knife, so he made a pretty good look out. "That's nice of him. Um, this couch..."

"Nice, right? I promise I don't think there's a raccoon living in it," Steve assured him. He was shuffling through a blue milk crate next to the couch.

"I refuse to apologize for that again. It was a nice chair," Thor said, ducking back under the sheet. "And she was very cute, once we taught her to stop biting."

Steve sat up with whatever he had been looking for in his hands and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. She was pretty adorable. We named her Buttercup."

"Here, sit back," he told Clint. He set the first aid kit on Clint's lap and started rummaging through it. Clint snuck a peek and saw it was pretty old looking, a beat up metal box that looked like it had come through a war. Under stocked, too, which wasn't the ideal thing for a first aid kit to be. Clint made a mental note to bring them a new one next time he had a chance.

Thor lit a little camping lamp, bringing the light closer to where Steve was poking carefully at Clint's face with hands that smelt like rubbing alcohol.

"Okay, try to follow my fingers," Steve said, satisfied there were no gushing wounds on Clint head to attend to. Once he was also satisfied that whatever concussion Clint had was minimal, he moved on to checking for broken ribs and lacerated kidneys and imminent death.

"I'm fine," Clint said, for what felt like the trillionith time. Thor distracted him with another story about Buttercup the baby raccoon (she had liked sucking on Steve's hair, apparently) while Steve taped up Clint's ribs.

"Okay, how's that?" Steve asked, sitting back on his heels and surveying his handiwork.

"Ow," Clint said, but it wasn't actually that bad now that he'd had a chance to catch his breath and think about it. Steve produced a pair of pills and offered them up. Clint eyed them. "What...?"

"Oh, just Tylenol. We keep a couple on hand when we can, just in case. I don't really like drugs, so we stay clean, right, Thor?"

"Laughter is the best drug. And liquor."

"Sometimes," Steve shrugged. "But not too often."

Clint wasn't sure how much of that he was buying but either way, upon closer inspection, the tablets were unmistakably Tylenol. He dry swallowed them and rested his head on the dirty couch. Looking around the little space that Steve and Thor had made their own, Clint was reminded of a place he once called home.

It was dirty and cramped and smelt like piss, but it was clearly _theirs_ and they were proud of it. Clint managed another thin smile. "Thanks a lot, guys, I really owe you one. I should get going home though. Work bright and early tomorrow, you know how it is."

Thor laughed, and on someone else maybe it would have been cold or patronizing, but on him it was just laughter. _What a happy weirdo,_ Clint thought, but he smiled just the same and hoped Thor's cheer was the only thing that was contagious in the warehouse.

"Whereabouts is that?" Steve asked. "Out of Red Side, I'm assuming?"

"Tilden Road, West Quarter."

Steve nodded. "All right. I'll walk you."

"Oh, I'm sure --"

"I'll walk with you. No sense in all my hard work saving you and doctoring you up just to get yourself rolled again."

That's how Clint ended up starting the long walk back to his apartment with a virtual stranger following him like an overenthusiastic puppy.

"So, if you live in the West Quarter, what are you doing down in Red Side?" Steve asked.

"I work around here. At the Ninth Street Community Centre. Off The Street, Into The Future program and all that. Helping the disenfranchised get the fair shake they deserve." Clint recited the little tag line, more out of habit than actually wanting to talk about it

Steve must has picked up on his hesitation, because he didn't ask about it further. "Ah, so you're right in the thick of it. You from around here?"

Clint shook his head. "Not really. Been in the city two years now, working at the Centre about six or so months."

Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets of his jacket and wiggled his fingers through one of the many holes on the right side when Clint looked over at him. "Do they have anyone who could sew up some of these darn holes for me? I've had my eye out for a needle and thread for a while, but no luck."

"I could do that," Clint said. "You patched up my ribs, I can patch up your coat."

"Really?" Steve looked more than thrilled, beaming at Clint like he just proclaimed him the next Miss America.

"Sure. I haven't needed to try in a while, but I don't think it's a skill I lost or anything."

Steve was still grinning. "That's real nice of you."

"Hey, I'm a nice guy, stop acting so surprised," Clint said. He smiled back, because looking at Steve's earnest grin was instant smile-fuel for him, apparently. Clint chalked it up to his very long day because he wasn't normally so... sentimental.

"Oh, of course, of course. Where'd you learn to sew?"

It was questions like that that always gave Clint some pause. He had been in community outreach for a few years now, after failing out of college, and he knew it was a thin line between sharing enough and sharing too much. Saying he could sew was a lot different than admitting he learned to sew stitching up wounds for a cartel in Boston.

"Picked it up when I was a kid," he said after what he thought was probably a beat too long.

"Great skill to have." If Steve picked up on the fact there was something Clint was leaving out, he didn't let on. Now _that_ was a great skill to have.

"Well, I grew up here," Steve went on, probably changing the subject on purpose, if Clint was any judge. "Travelled around Europe for a while -- US Army -- but ended up back here." He swept his arms wide, turning back a little to face Clint and encompass the dirty streets around them like it was paradise. "It might have changed a lot from what I remember, but it'll always be home."

Clint had grown up all over, never expecting to count a place as home for longer than a month or so. Side effect of being a mouthy street rat, he supposed. Once he'd made too many enemies, or met too many people who could pick him out of a line up, he had to move on.

It was a habit that followed him through his teenage years in the circus, and then even still when he tried to get his life in check with the GED and college. Staying here for so long had been kind of a fluke, but the job he was working now turned out to be a lot more fulfilling than running for a gang or walking on a tightrope, so a few months had turned into a few more, and now he was talking about it in terms of years.

He'd never really considered that before. It wasn't as scary as he used to think it would be, back when he was a kid staring into the dark and thinking of that mythical 'someday'. Maybe it was just the dull throb of his fucked up ribs, or the bruises on his back that were starting to make themselves known were taking all his attention and he didn't have the brain power right now to freak out.

"You're not a very chatty guy," Steve remarked. "I like that."

They were a couple blocks out of Red Side, finally into a part of the city that didn't look like something out a zombie apocalypse movie when Clint was hit by a wave of dizziness. It wasn't the absolute most unpleasant thing he'd been hit with that night, but it was still pretty awful.

"Sorry," Clint muttered, leaning heavily against a stone storefront.

"It's okay, just relax," Steve said leaning next to him like they were just hanging out instead of contemplating dropping dead. "I'm in no hurry."

"You're used to people doing whatever you tell them, aren't you?" Clint asked, once he'd caught his breath and could see straight. He was familiar with the trait, though he had to admit Steve was a little different than other people who commanded the same sort of compliance in those around them. Clint's boss at the community centre was one of those people. She could tell him to do something, anything, and he would see to it instantly. She was just plain scary when she was mad, like a redheaded demon in a whirlwind.

But Steve said 'take it easy' and looked at him with those wide, baby cow eyes and Clint sat because he couldn't bear the thought of disappointing him. He would just feel guilty if he did.

"Yeah," Steve said. He smiled a little and ducked his head, and there was an honest to god blush on his cheeks. Clint wouldn't have noticed, except maybe he was sitting a little too close. "It's okay though. I only use my powers for good."

Clint didn't even want to consider what Steve would get up to if he decided to use his powers for evil. "I think I'm fine now," he said instead. "It's a long walk."

"Sure is. Bet it's a nice place though." Steve offered Clint a hand getting up and Clint stared for a second or two before he took it. It was nice, he decided once they were walking again. They were becoming fast friends.

"Yeah, it's not bad. I'll give you the grand tour when we get there." He glanced up at the street sign they were passing under. "If we get there."

Steve laughed, and Clint felt a surge of... yeah, that was lust. It was the way Steve's eyes lit up when he laughed, the way sound melted the shadows away from his face. He looked carefree when he laughed. Also, fucking gorgeous. Clint had originally chalked that up to Steve being the one who saved him, and his hero status in Clint's eyes had made him blind to whatever physical imperfections existed. But the adrenaline was gone, they were far removed from danger, and Steve was still the most gorgeous guy Clint had seen in a long, long time.

"How're feeling now?" Steve asked.

"Fine, just fine," Clint said. "We can keep going." If he wasn't so anxious to get home, he might have tried to delay a little longer for more time in Steve's company. He was friendly, earnest, and just chatty enough to be interesting instead of annoying. If he cooked, he'd be perfect. Clint resolved not to ask. That was starting down a road he did not need to start down. He forced his lust away, thought about baseball and roadkill, and they started walking again.

* * *

"Now, we can go north on Sutter up to Kinney, or we can go south and cut through Abraham Lincoln Park," Steve said, peering one way and then the other down Sutter Street. "Have a preference?"

Clint shrugged. "Honestly? I'm kind of just following you. I've never walked this before."

Steve gave him a mostly-unreadable look, something between 'I can't believe you said that' and 'you are so adorable'. Maybe the second part was wishful thinking on Clint's part.

"Let's go through the park. It's nice at night. You can almost see the stars."

Clint wasn't sure 'almost' counted when it came to astronomy, but he followed Steve towards the big, wrought iron gates closing off the entrance to the park.

"I can't climb that," Clint said. He stretched his arms experimentally and he couldn't get them up over his head without the pain in his chest hitching again. "I mean, I could try, but it would end up being the second time you'd have to save me tonight."

Steve held a hand to stop him in front of the gate. "I wouldn't complain. I think things turned out pretty well for me on that count. But no, we're not climbing." Clint watched in amusement as Steve made a big show of patting himself down before producing a paperclip from one of his pockets that didn't have any holes (which Clint thought was probably the true magic trick).

He picked the lock pretty quick, though Clint thought he could probably have done better himself. Steve held the gate open for him and closed it after them, shutting the lock with a snap.

Clint looked at Steve with a quirked eyebrow. "Really?"

"Not everyone has our pure and noble intentions, I'm afraid," Steve said with chuckle and a smile. Clint maybe choked on his breath just a little, but thankfully, Steve didn't notice.

Steve started talking about the park, and at first, Clint tried to act like he was interested while sneaking sideways glances at Steve's profile in the low light. After a few moments, Clint realized he _was_ interested.

"And the city convened a council in 1985 to rename the park after complaints and that's when they came up with Abraham Lincoln Park, which I like a lot better. This is where I first met Thor, actually. I'll show you where." Steve hooked his arm with Clint's and started leading him down a side path.

"He's a pretty funny guy," Clint said. "How long have you know him?"

"Oh, three years now? Maybe a little longer. Ever since he first moved here. He's not from around here."

"Never would have guessed."

Steve chuckled and his hand squeezed Clint's bicep ever so slightly. "He's the nicest guy though, for all his quirks. Not sure what I'd do without a best friend."

The pressure on his arm went straight to his dick and Clint bit his lip in frustration. He knew a basically anonymous hook up at stupid o' clock at night after getting smacked around so hard only a few hours ago was a stupid idea. But he'd survived a hardship, right? Wasn't he entitled to a bit of sunshine on a rainy day?

Steve dropped his arm and ran a few steps to the base of the Abe Lincoln statute that stood near the middle of the park.

"Do you ever wish you could have met him?" Steve asked, craning his head to look up at bronze Lincoln and then back at Clint with a smile.

"I sometimes wish I could have a hat like that?"

Steve sighed. "You're not the first person to say that."

Clint laughed, and Steve laughed after a second, too, and it was exactly the sunshine Clint wanted. "Which way out?" he asked, glancing around. There were trees in every direction, and like Steve had promised, Clint thought he could almost see stars.

"This way," Steve said, and he took Clint's arm again.

For a split second, Clint almost told him to knock it off, but the warmth of Steve's hand was nice. "Do you think..."

Clint looked up, trying to think of the best way to ask Steve to join him for coffee or dinner sometimes, when Steve interrupts his train of thought with the sudden press of his lips. It wasn't an intense, mind blowing kiss that made Clint drop to his knees and thank God for existence, but it was enough for him to get a taste. Their lips jolted together when he stopped walking and Steve took another step, and they broke apart over Steve's laugh.

"Sorry," he said, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "I was just getting a vibe."

"No, it's... Yeah. A vibe. Me too." Clint reached for him and Steve obliged, sliding right back into Clint's personal space. His hand was gentle on Clint's hip under his jacket, but Clint leaned in with a little more force. The next kiss was hot and open mouthed and now Clint could really see the stars. Steve nipped at his lips and Clint shivered for a reason completely unrelated to any breeze that might have just passed by.

"How much further?" he asked, working his hand between Steve's tee shirt and the waistband of his jeans.

Steve chuckled and Clint could feel it rumbling through their chests, pressed together like they were. "Don't worry, I'll get you home eventually. It's a nice night, we should take our time."

Clint started to tell him he really had better ideas than hanging out in this park all night, but Steve kissed him again, all energetic tongue and scraping teeth, and really, who was Clint to argue. He grabbed at Steve's forearm, draping it around his waist and standing on his toes when Steve started kneading his ass.

"This probably isn't a good idea," Clint said, dragging his lips away from Steve's after a long pause.

"No? You sure? I think it's a great idea..." Steve took a few steps forward, crowding into Clint and backing him up against the base of the statue.

The cold stone dug into Clint's ass and with Steve's hands working methodically to get under layers of clothing, Clint was glad to have something to lean against. "Isn't it treason to get to third base on the president's feet?" Clint asked, muffled where his lips were pressed into Steve's neck.

Steve laughed softly, craning his neck to catch Clint's mouth again, swiping his tongue gently over Clint's lips before working further into his mouth, hot and wet. When he finally pulled away, he was still chuckling. "A, what makes you think you're getting to third base at all tonight? B, it's not treason, it's actually highly patriotic, and C, he's the ex-president, so he's a lot more lenient anyway. But come on, let's get you home. An injured soldier needs a soft bed if he plans to get to third base."

* * *

After he peeled Steve out of his jacket, Clint shoved him down on said bed. Steve let him, propped up on his elbows and watching closely. There was a faint smile on his face as he toed out of his boots and pointed Clint down to the bed.

There was a twinge in his chest, accompanied by a hitch in his breath, that was definitely caused by movement and not the curve of Steve's lips. Clint shook it off and kicked his shoes at the wall.

"You know, you don't have to do all the work," Steve said after a moment. He took Clint's shirt off, careful where his ribs were taped up. "Come here, let me..."

"I was always taught that work you enjoyed barely counted as work though." He stretched out on his side next to Steve and smoothed his hand over bare skin.

Steve shivered appreciatively and arched into Clint's touch.

"Oh, well that's okay then, I guess. How do we do this?"

Clint bit his lip, but then thought better of it and leaned in to bite Steve's lips instead. His mouth was just a little chapped, enough for there to be drag and friction when they kissed. "What, have you never done this before?" Clint asked after a long moment or two of biting and smirking.

"Why, do you have a thing for blushing virgins?" Steve asked with a sly smile and a one shouldered shrug. "I meant with you all banged up. I don't want to hurt you..."

"You won't," Clint said. "I'm a big boy, I can handle it."

"Good, because I was sort of hoping you _would_ handle it." Over the top cheesy, but there was a breathless quality to Steve's voice, like he wasn't quite sure it would work. Or else he was too awkward to just ask Clint to touch his cock, so he had to hide it behind awful innuendo. And why was either option so damn attractive?

Clint couldn't get him out of his pants fast enough after that. He wasn't sure what he was expecting. To be honest, he should have known Steve would be gorgeous beyond words, but seeing him up close was really something else. All the long, smooth stretches of skin and muscle, pale in the light from the streetlamps filtering through thin curtains. Clint wanted to put his mouth everywhere all at once, but too many options left him unable to focus on any one thing. He just leaned back on his elbow, watching the rise and fall of Steve's chest until he was overcome with the urge to finally touch.

Suddenly, he was desperate to get his hands all over Steve, to touch everything, to explore and try to memorize that skin and those every intimate dip and curve through his fingertips. But he didn't think they had that kind of time, unfortunately. His own dick was pressing insistently against his boxers, making its intentions very known.

This was about the time Clint's impatience faded a little. He still desperately wanted... well, everything, but he wasn't sure how he was supposed to go about touching Steve's cock, even after the corny line about it. Was he supposed to be gentle, or just go all in like he would touch himself? Clint had only been with one or two guys, and the last one had been years ago. His eagerness mixed with embarrassment and he hesitated. Thankfully, Steve cut off any further stress about it though when he took Clint's hand and wrapped it around the base of his dick, moving Clint's hand the way he wanted it. 

Once Steve had established a pace, he let Clint take over and his hand dropped to the bed to clutch at the sheets. Clint jacked him slowly, taking in the sight of the blush spreading across Steve's chest and the way he bit his lip to hold back his noise when Clint slid his thumb up over the head.

"You look good," Clint finally managed to say.

Steve turned his head, pressing his face against Clint's hip. He laughed and Clint felt his lips moving, even if he couldn't hear the words.

"Feels good," Steve said after he turned to look Clint in the eye again, possibly repeating himself, or maybe just making an observation. "Can we...?"

"Yeah, yeah, we can," Clint said quickly. He realized after a moment that he wasn't sure what Steve was asking for. Steve didn't finish his thought though, he just nodded and his eyes fluttered closed and he arched up into Clint's hand again. Clint decided maybe Steve was just going to let him call the shots, which was perfectly fine with him, because for all the initial uncertainty Clint was full of ideas now.

Clint really, _really_ didn't want to let go or move away, but he didn't lead a hopping, active sexual lifestyle and the condoms, if he even had any, were in the bathroom. They were going to need those.

Steve made a little noise, something that was probably classified as a whimper, when Clint pulled away from him and started to get up off the bed. If Clint had even an ounce less self-control, that might have been the end of it. "Fuck," he breathed, falling back on one elbow.

Clint lingered, desperate to hear more of those noises. He licked experimentally at the head of Steve's cock, and Steve didn't disappoint him. The sound that came out of his mouth -- from those perfect lips, bright from being bitten, the mouth that Clint so wanted to ravish right about now, if only he was that good at multi-tasking -- was... almost unreal. It was something Clint expected to hear when Saint Peter announced his name at the gates of heaven because it was the closest thing to fucking perfection he'd ever heard.

Yeah, suddenly getting his own dick the attention it was calling for was the least of Clint's worries. What he really wanted right now was to catalogue every single noise Steve made up to and including what kind of swear word he was going to shout when he came down Clint's throat.

He readjusted himself on the bed, crouching on his knees between Steve's spread legs and running his hands up sculpted thighs. "Can I?" he asked, though he knew it was redundant. Steve was reaching down, fingers grasping and twisting in the sheets.

"Yes -- no."

"Which is it?" Clint chuckled, catching one of Steve's hands and kissing at his fingers.

"Condom," Steve said.

"Really? For... this?"

"Safe sex or no sex, that's the rule." Before Clint even had a chance to roll off the bed again, Steve flicked a condom at him. "But a good Boy Scout is always prepared."

"You might be perfect."

Steve laughed and sat up a little. "I don't think so, but I do try. You wanna be a pal here, or... ?"

Clint rolled the condom on and followed it immediately with his mouth, ignoring the taste of latex and instead savouring the feel of this nearly-perfect blowjob. It would be perfect if Steve's hands were pulling his hair a little tighter, and maybe if he wasn't so bruised and exhausted. But other than that, perfect.

Steve's cock was hot and heavy against his tongue, big enough to be a challenge for Clint's rusty oral skills, but he found he was quickly catching on again. It seemed he could do no wrong, wringing more and more sounds out of Steve, sounds that made every one of Clint nerve endings sizzle and pop.

He wrapped one hand around the base of Steve's cock, working it in counterpoint to his mouth. His lips dragged on the latex every now and then, which felt weird, but every time it happened, Steve made a noise or jerked his hips a little. Clint started trying to make it happen when he noticed, moving his tongue more than he would have without the condom, trying to coax more of those small, whimpering moans from Steve's lips.

"Wait, wait," Steve said after a few minutes, which weren't exactly the words Clint was hoping to hear right as he was getting more confident in his skills.

Clint's sudden surge of self-consciousness was unwelcome as hell. He could feel his cheeks heating up. "What's up? Did I --"

"No, it's perfect," Steve said, rushing to cut him off. "Amazing, really. No, I just wanted to make sure."

"Make sure what?"

"You're going to fuck me after, right?"

If the minor panic about his fellatio skills had made his erection wilt a little, Steve's wide, worried, eyes and the breathy little catch to his voice made Clint harder than he would have ever thought possible.

"Do you want me to?"

Steve nodded.

"No, say it." Clint wasn't sure he should push his luck, but he was too far down on that spiral of lust to stop himself.

"Oh," Steve said, one breathy, shaky sound, and tightened his fingers in Clint's hair that extra half inch that made Clint grind down against the mattress involuntarily. "Yeah, okay. Promise you'll fuck me after? I need you to fuck me."

Clint honestly couldn't think of a time that topped this for straight up, debauched hotness. No one had ever begged Clint to fuck them before. He was kind of wishing he was perverted enough to have a camera set up in his bedroom, because even the low light filtering in from the building next door was enough to see how perfectly ravished Steve looked, flat on his back and basically panting.

"Oh, I promise," Clint said. He had to pace himself through the rest of sucking Steve off, so desperate to get to the next step, but he thought shorting Steve on pleasure wouldn't be fair.

Look at him, thinking about 'fair' at a time like this. Such a goddamn humanitarian.

Clint wrapped his mouth around Steve's dick again and hummed, feeling Steve move against the vibration. With one hand working around the shaft and Steve's fingers digging into his shoulder, Clint was fairly confident in his ability this time around. He could feel Steve was getting close, turning to antsy hip thrusts and scratching nails.

Steve arched, muscles straining and bunching under his skin and came with a low groan -- not a string of curse words like Clint had been hoping for, but the noise sent a longing ache down his cock anyway.

Clint gave him a moment to catch his breath, then kissed him, trying and failing to chase the taste of the condom out of his mouth with Steve's tongue. Steve kissed him back, sloppy and enthusiastic, sliding his hands over Clint's shoulders and making a satisfied-sounding noise into Clint's mouth. "Now?" he asked, still running his fingers up and down Clint's back with one hand. He wiggled a warm hand into the small space between them and cupped his hand around the head of Clint's dick, smoothing his thumb down and making Clint squirm against him. Definitely made up for the taste of condom.

"Okay," Clint said, his voice coming out in a rushed breath against Steve's shoulder. Clint's heart was pounding in a way that he thought should feel uncomfortable, but Steve pressed another condom into his hand and Clint stopped thinking about heartbeats and what was fair and how Steve's hair was mussed so prettily. "I probably have lube somewhere, I should go find..."

Steve produced a little tube (from the same mysterious place he'd stowed the condoms, probably) and basically threw it at him.

Clint chuckled and groped around in the bad light for where it had fallen to the bed. "Impatient?" he asked.

"You promised," Steve said. He shifted around, obviously waiting for Clint to get on with it. He spread his legs a little more, pulling one knee up to his chest and giving Clint the perfect view.

Clint fought the feeling of his mouth going dry so he could say something witty and charming and sexy. "Nngh," he said. Okay, well at least he tried. He rearranged himself, kneeling as near as he could. With his knees bumping against Steve's ass, he pulled Steve by the hips until he thought they were close enough. From here, looking down at Steve spread out across the rumpled bed spread with a red flush across his cheeks, Clint was feeling pretty fucking lucky, attempted mugging be damned.

He took his time to slide his fingertips up the crack of Steve's ass. Steve shuddered appreciatively and let out a little moan. "No, yeah, good," he said, dropping his head back against the pillows. Clint worked a finger against Steve's hole, eager and slick, pressing a sharp kiss to Steve's knee, the only part he could reach easily.

When he thought Steve was ready, he added another finger and another squirt of lube, pushing in deeper when Steve moaned, and twisting his fingers when Steve asked for more. "No, _more,_ " Steve said again, jerking his hips and grinding down against Clint's hand.

Clint got the condom on despite his fumbling eagerness and slippery hands. Steve propped himself up on his elbows to watch.

"Ready?" he asked, though he didn't really need to, judging by the way Steve was watching him hungrily, all dark eyes and bitten lips.

"Absolutely," Steve said immediately.

Clint took a deep breath and used a hand to guide his cock to Steve's ass. He lay his other hand on Steve's hip, tracing a small scar with his thumb. "Okay," he said, huffing out a sigh. The words were more to steady himself than Steve, who was still watching with begging eyes. Clint pushed in, hand tightening reflexively on Steve's hip when he gasped at the sensation.

Steve's eyes snapped shut and he forced out a shaky breath before slowly blinking and staring up at Clint. "Fuck, that's good," he said, voice coming out in a laugh.

Clint nodded. "Yeah." He was trying to keep a handle on himself, to build up and take it slow, when all he wanted to do was snap his hips forward and fuck into Steve like there was no tomorrow. 

He pushed in further with a steady, even pressure until he bottomed out and Steve squirmed against him. There was a little trickle of sweat at Steve's temple and all Clint wanted was to lean in and taste it. He couldn't help himself, bending down across Steve's chest, bringing himself right up against the incredible heat of him. Steve laughed, a soft huff of air at the back of Clint's neck when he licked up the bead of sweat.

His laugh turned into a deep moan when Clint straightened up and drove his cock a little deeper. "Please?" he said, fingers dancing over Clint's wrist, tugging at his arm.

"I want to take my time," Clint explained, pulling back a little so he could sink in again.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath. "Okay," he said after a second. "Sure. Take your time, take whatever you want."

Clint nearly swallowed his tongue at that and finally started fucking into Steve. He didn't mean to start off pushing so deep or fast, but it was like he was drunk on the hot, prickling lust pooling under his skin and it drove him forward.

Steve really wasn't helping, all soft, urging noises and perfect smiles that were setting Clint on edge. He didn't think he was going to last much longer when Steve started twisting his hips. Clint must have hit the perfect spot, because Steve yelped and clenched so tight around his cock.

"Fuck," Clint gasped, fingers digging into the smooth skin of Steve's hip.

Steve didn't answer, or couldn't, his own hands bunched in the bedspread. His eyelids fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of blacking out and Clint was temporarily fixated on the shadowy look of his eyelashes, curving down against his cheek. He didn't realize he'd stopped moving until Steve opened his eyes and looked up at him in confusion.

He started moving again, the friction between him and Steve so deliciously unbearable. Clint leaned in a little, closing the space between them enough that Steve could touch Clint's face without stretching. Clint licked at the fingers that trailed across his lips and felt himself smile, big and goofy.

"Is it what you wanted?" Clint ground out.

"Yeah... yes." Steve's voice was a bit breathy, but he didn't break rhythm, still angling up just right, still giving as good as he got.

Clint suddenly ground down, hard. Steve's fingers jabbed at the corner of his mouth, but the look painted on his face as Clint rolled his hips forward was worth it.

"Tell me how you feel," said Clint.

Steve just sort of glared at him -- not serious, still too blissed out for that; a play-glare. "Didn't know you cared."

Clint pulled back slowly, got a knee into the mattress, ran his nails down Steve's sides to watch the involuntary shiver. "Wait, who says I do? Just wanna hear you say it."

Steve's fingers were suddenly reaching around and trailing over Clint's own ass, and Clint bit his lip hard at two kinds of pressure from two different angles. He smiled down when he'd got himself under control again. He could wait to hear Steve tell him, if he needed to.

Clint set up the rhythm that he knew got him there every time, knew because it got _him_ there every time, it got _everyone_ there every time. Slow, rolling thrusts, just pushing into him and the heat and the tightness, staying deep with the weight of his own body. He knew it was working by the way Steve's breathing changed, going slower and wetter and deeper.

Steve caught on fast, matching his movements, and they both went strangely intent as they tried to spool out the pleasure between them. God. The warmth, tight-slick and drawing out of him in a thread whose tension was kept just perfect by the movement of their hips. "Say it," Clint whispered.

Steve's lashes were a dark smudge on a sweaty face. "Feels so fucking good."

"Yeah?" Clint was on the absolute edge, holding his breath and biting hard on his lip, waiting for something to push him over.

Steve's mouth open and closed a few times, like he couldn't make the words happen, and he just nodded in response, digging fingers into Clint's thigh.

That was it, the only thing Clint needed to let go. He made an embarrassing noise when he came, but he didn't care in the slightest. He forced himself to stay upright, to not curl up on Steve like a fucked-out zombie -- more for his injuries than broad Steve's well-being.

After a moment or two or getting his breath back and blinking the stars out of his eyes, Clint pulled out carefully and tugged the condom off. "I'm just gonna get..." He motioned vaguely to the hallway, trying to get his brain in gear and find the right words. He was just so fucking tired all of the sudden. Physically, emotionally, and everything else drained.

"No," Steve said. "Don't worry about it. Just... you must be exhausted."

Clint nodded and collapsed on the bed next to him, scooting over until he was comfortable. Steve rolled over on his side, back to Clint, and Clint didn't really mind. Steve had a nice back, strong and warm, and Clint could rest comfortably behind it.

In the hazy moments between awake and asleep, Clint turned his head to press his lips to Steve's shoulder. He felt a rumble, maybe a little laugh, or a sigh, run through Steve when he did it, but neither of them said anything.

Clint wondered for a second, after it happened, if it was the best thing he could have done. Not the sex itself, which has been a great idea, but the kiss. It was weirdly intimate, more intimate than anything else they'd done that night.

But Clint decided he liked it though, the feeling it gave him, the connection. There was a familiar physical connection, wrapped in urgency and lust, but there was also this seemingly-unbridgeable emotional chasm. They were virtual strangers, after all. The little kisses, those little pieces of stolen closeness seemed to make that less noticeable.

He dropped off to sleep thinking about it, and it made for fairly pleasant dreams.

* * *

Shortly after the alarm went off the next morning, coffee was brewing in the kitchen while Clint examined the bruising on his chest in front of the bathroom mirror. There were less than he was expecting, so maybe they were all deep tissue bruises that would take a full day or more to appear. So, he had that to look forward to. But despite feeling vaguely like he was trampled by horses, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face.

"You really tired me out. I don't normally sleep that late," Steve said, coming up behind him and pressing a kiss against his shoulder.

"It's not even seven." Clint eyed him in the mirror skeptically, taking in wide stretches of bare skin and the occasional freckle that he really wanted to run his tongue over.

"I know. I'm usually always up by five. Old habits die hard."

"Sure, I know how that is." He didn't elaborate further since Steve didn't seem like he wanted to really discuss it either. Quiet stretched out and filled the room. Further away in the building, sounds of other people starting their days, a crying baby, and someone's early morning death metal dance party kept it from being an awkward silence and turned it into a tense quiet instead.

"Uh, if you want to leave your jacket, I can see about patching it up for you," Clint offered changing the subject as a mercy to both of them. Part of his offer was altruism, but only the part that wasn't was pure selfishness. It was the perfect reason for Steve to have to come back, and if Steve took him up on it, maybe it would segue into their seeing each other being a regular thing. Clint would not object to that.

"Really? You don't have to do that. Looking at you now, maybe I didn't do such a great job on these injuries."

Clint chuckled. "It looks worse than it feels. I guess I bruise like a peach." He knew he would look worse tomorrow, or maybe even in a few hours, but he didn't want to tell Steve that.

"What time do you have to leave to make it to work on time?" Steve was watching him in the mirror now, and not to examine his injuries. 

"Oh, hah, you think I'm that easy, do you?"

"Yes."

"Damn, you've figured out my secret." Secret or not, Clint pulled out the drawer and rummaged around for the condoms he was eighty percent sure existed. Steve reached past him, and pulled a strip of them out, studiously checking for an expiry date.

"Perfect," he said, when they passed inspection. He wrapped an arm around Clint's waist and pulled him bodily away from the counter.

"What are you --?"

Steve nuzzled at Clint's neck, biting gently, and Clint's question trailed off. Whatever was going behind his back, Clint didn't care, as long as the rasp of breathing and the steady puffs of warm breath on his neck kept up, spaced out between the drag of lips and sharp flashes of teeth. Clint let his eyes drift closed, feeling the heat of Steve's skin. He wanted to pull it over himself like a blanket, like a shield from the coldness of the tiles and the unheated bathroom.

Steve pulled away a little, enough for Clint to open his eyes and meet Steve's serious look in the mirror.

"What?" he asked, a little nervous.

"Is it okay if I fuck you?"

Clint dropped his head back against Steve's shoulder and failed at biting back a moan. "Yeah," he said, voice coming out a hoarse whisper. "Feel free."

Steve pressed a quick kiss to his temple, sending a slither of electric heat down his spine, before pushing him forward. Clint braced himself with his hands flat against the counter, watching Steve in the mirror.

Thoughts of coffee and bruises flew out of his head faster than he thought possible.

* * *

The coffee tasted like shit, probably because Clint had been distracted while measuring out the grounds, but it wasn't a huge loss since they didn't have time to drink it anyway. Steve pulled the plug from the socket while Clint dug through a box in his closet to find something Steve could wear while his jacket underwent radical cosmetic surgery at Clint's hands.

"Here, this should do you," he said, tossing the faded blue sweater at him. "It'll keep you warm, at least." Clint knew all about freezing half to death during the first cold snap of the year. It would be on them sooner rather than later.

"Wow, thanks," Steve said. He held it up against his chest. "It might even almost fit me, too. Are you sure you --"

"Yes, I'm sure."

Steve leaned over and gave Clint a little peck on the cheek. "Thank you."

Clint was awkward with that much focused gratitude. Maybe it was just that he'd never really received it before, or because Steve gave him warm fuzzies or something. Whatever, he wasn't going to look too closely at his thoughts and feelings about his one night stand with a guy he barely knew, because last time he over-thought a one night stand, he'd ended up married. Clint didn't think Abraham Lincoln would approve.

"I'm taking the bus to work. I can loan you a token if you don't want to walk all the way back to Red Side."

Steve's response was muffled from inside the sweater. When he managed to get into it, he ran both hands through his hair a few times to smooth it out. Clint didn't tell him it didn't work because Steve was impossibly cute when he was dishevelled. "Come again?"

"Oh, I said it's fine. I think I'll cut through the park -- you know, without breaking and entering this time. It looks like it's going to be a gorgeous day."

When Clint looked out the window, he saw a grey sky with only the vaguest hint of actual cloud shapes hidden in the smog. It looked like it was damp and overcast, just like every other day in this city. He wished he could see it the way Steve did.

They parted ways in the lobby of the building and Clint resisted every urge he had to look back over his shoulder as Steve walked the other way. Maybe he'd see him again in a few days if he came to pick up his jacket, but more likely they were ships passing in the night.

Clint spent the commute to work longing for some Tylenol. He was aching like he'd been run over by a mean old truck, and he knew he probably should have spent his night actually sleeping, but... Well, didn't someone once say 'never regret what once made you smile'? His boss had that cross-stitched on a sampler in her office, so that was definitely something someone had once said.

There had definitely been smiling. Clint wasn't going to regret it, even if it meant a headache and muscles that complained every time he moved. There was some feeling he couldn't shake, and maybe it was just that he'd had a real fuck for the first time in over a year, or maybe it was the way Clint had woken up with Steve's nose pressed into his shoulder and an arm curled protectively around his waist.

Clint swiped his ID card and letting himself into the community centre through the staff entrance. "Morning," he said, passing one of the night staff filling out his time card in the employee office as he came in. He tried to keep his eyes averted so he wouldn't be forced to make small talk and explain the bruises. It would all come out eventually, it always did, but his mind was swimming with enough thoughts from the previous night without him having to talk his way through the less fun parts of it again five hundred times.

Clint filled out his own time card and headed to the little office he shared with the other daytime case worker, Janet. She was sitting in her swivel chair, small frame bent over the desk, eyeing a stack of files suspiciously. Every few seconds, she would brush a short lock of hair off her face, but it never stuck behind her ear for long before sliding down again.

Clint had bought her a pack of head bands for her birthday a few months ago because she always complained, but he never saw her wearing them. He thought she preferred complaining.

"What's that you've got?" he asked.

She raised her hand in a half-wave, but didn't turn around. "The waiting list for the hospice program. It's getting grim."

Clint winced. He'd seen the report a few weeks ago and with winter coming, he knew it could only be getting worse. "I don't envy you right now. How about I take the under-thirteen after school program this week and you can focus your energy on not getting me involved with that one?"

"How kind of you to offer, Barton, where exactly did you learn -- oh holy crap, Clint, what happened?" She had spun on her chair while talking and was staring at him in unabashed horror. Her dark eyes went cartoonishly wide as she stood and flapped her hands at him to get him to sit.

"Well, Jan, apparently we work in a rough neighbourhood," he said with a shrug. He sat though, because she looked so traumatized. "It looks a lot worse than it actually is."

She fussed over him anyway, because apparently he gave everyone he met the impression he was a sad little baby deer who needed attention. Clint let her fuss because it was easier than fighting with her, and because she gave him a migraine-strength Tylenol which took the edge off. He didn't let on about his bruised ribs though, because he figured she would probably freak on him.

"What's on your agenda today?" Jan asked, finally satisfied that Clint wasn't dying right before her eyes. Clint was starting to think it was him that inspired this mother hen instinct in everyone around him, because there wasn't single ounce of mothering nature in Jan for anyone who wasn't a marginalized street person. The cactus on her desk had actually died of dehydration.

"I think I'm going to talk to the boss about starting up a clothing bank. I know we're running low on space, but since the Salvation Army on Third closed, we're the only place in this part of town that might be able to run something like that."

Jan was nodding along as he was talking. "Yeah, that sounds great. I'd be willing to put in extra hours if you'll manage it. I bet we can get one of the local high schools to sponsor it for their holiday gift drive or something too." It had been an idea he'd kicked around on the bus after realizing Steve's jacket was more holes than fabric.

"Let's go down and start setting up for lunch and talk it out. Maybe Maria will have some ideas about the space issue. There should be room in the basement if we can shift some stuff around."

The centre did free lunch every day to anyone in the neighbourhood who needed it, which all the staff liked because it meant a little time away from the chaos of paperwork and never-ending case files. Sure, it was chaos downstairs too, handing out sandwiches and whatever other food the local grocery stores had donated that day, but it was a different breed of chaos, and variety is the spice of life.

Just as the lunch rush was dying down and Clint was considering heading up to the office again, the doors from outside swung open and two kids slunk in. Clint didn't recognize them -- there were so many kids these days, and so few of them ever wanted to talk to a case worker -- but he was pretty sure he recognized their injuries.

Jan got to them first, bringing sandwiches and apples. "Hey guys, having a bad week, I see."

"Yeah, you know. It's rough out there." It was clear they didn't want to talk, but there was something about Jan that made even the roughest, toughest guys scuff their shoes on the floor and say 'shucks'. Clint went back to his cleaning, not prepared to go over and make nice.

"Take care of yourselves, okay? And come around more, I miss your faces," he heard Jan say. He looked up in time to see her patting them each on the top of the head like they were wilful labradoodle puppies instead of badass street thugs.

"What's up?" she asked when she walked back over to Clint as he was wiping down some nearby tables.

"Pretty sure those are the kids who beat me up last night," he said under his breath.

"What?" Jan screeched like an owl when she got upset, Clint should have remembered that. She straightened up and put on her business face, but they had already left. Jan huffed and puffed and fussed over him again until he pushed her hands away.

"It's not really a big deal," he said.

"I beg to differ! I gave them fucking rice kripsie squares! Did you even go to the hospital?" she asked, her tone shifting suddenly from thundering rage to concerned suspicion.

"Nah, it's not that bad, just looks nasty. I had a friend look me over."

Jan scoffed. "Your friend who's a doctor?"

"You know, I don't think that's ever come up? But I assume so. I mean, isn't everyone a doctor of something nowadays?" He grabbed one end of the table while Jan grabbed the other and they tipped it on its side to fold the legs in.

"Well, you're a doctor of sass-ology. Or maybe just ass-ology, you ass," she said, rolling her eyes, but she let the subject drop.

The rest of the week was as relatively quiet as the centre ever got, so Clint was busy undertaking the formation of the used clothing bank out of a storage closet in the basement, which was more complicated than he had expected.

The boss had said yes to his proposal and granted him two hundred dollars for set up, after reading and rereading his paperwork just long enough to make Clint wish her office floor would open up and swallow him. Seriously, Clint wouldn't put any money against that woman being an evil criminal mastermind some days. But Jan made good on her promise to help out, thank fuck. He wasn't sure he would have been able to do it all without her.

"Hey, Barton, I got you a coffee." She held out a Starbucks cup, five thousand times better than any of the brown swamp water they called coffee at the centre.

"Marry me," Clint said. He had been in a Starbucks three times in his life and someone else had always ordered for him because thermonuclear astrophysics seemed less complicated, but whatever Jan had brought him was perfect.

She slipped off her sunglasses and dropped them in her bag. "In your dreams. How's your latte?"

"Good. Is that what it is, a latte?"

"Vanilla latte, extra shot of espresso. You looked like you could use it."

"You angel. Do you want to continue being an angel and meet me here tomorrow for six? All the discount shelving I bought from that department store closing uptown is getting delivered."

Jan laughed. "I'm not scheduled until ten tomorrow. You're cute, but you're not that cute. Here, gimme those brushes and you get the can open."

They were painting the dingy drywall a nice fresh coat of whatever colour the staff at the hardware store had donated to their cause.

"Nice," Clint said, laughing as he pried the lid off the paint can.

"That's pretty... neon."

"They said the guy mixed it wrong and the customer flipped out. They were going to get rid of it anyway, so we got it for free."

Jan dipped her brush in and painted a streak of the hot pink across the wall and stood back to get a better look. "Well, it's definitely going to brighten it up in here." She bumped his arm with hers. "Let's get to work so we can be out of here before midnight."

They painted in relative silence, just the low murmur of background noise from the half-static radio station. Jan was finishing up the sections along the rubber baseboards while Clint cleaned the splatters and stray drops off the floor.

"So, what made you decide this was your pet project?" she asked.

Clint scrubbed at a stubborn patch of dirt on the floor. "Well, there was only one other place where people could get cheap winter clothes around here, the Sally Ann down on Third, right? And they closed a few months ago."

"Yeah, I remember. I just wondered if there was something special that made you think of it." Clint got the impression there was something she wanted to say but wasn't getting across.

"You know I used to live on the street, Jan. For years, actually. I know how cold it gets."

"I remember." It had come up organically, and Clint had ended up telling Jan things he'd never really told anyone before. Nothing too heinous, just a few little details about the life of the young boy running from anything and everything. Jan had listened intently without interrupting once, or picking up a pen while he was talking (for which he was immensely grateful, because he saw her reaching for it a few times, and damned if he'd be treated like a case to her).

"Hey, thanks for helping out tonight," he said, changing the subject with a smile. "Dinner tonight? I'm buying."

"Oh yeah?"

"Sure. How do you feel about Subway?"

Jan laughed. "Wow, you sure do know how to show a girl a good time."

"I'm a real gentleman," he said, offering her his arm.

* * *

The clothing bank was a complete and total hit. In the first two days of operation, there were twenty-three bags donated from various people, with at least another fifteen pledged from two of the area high schools as part of their holiday charity drives.

Once the word got out, just by word of mouth and a couple hand drawn flyers passed off to the right people, people were stopping by to see Clint in the basement more than they'd ever stopped by to see him in his office. Not many people wanted to talk to a case worker about getting back into school or work or into rehab, but everyone wanted to talk to the guy with warm socks and mittens.

Jan was spending her day off in the basement with him, still looking through the accounting ledger for the local hospice, and helping Clint whenever he got too busy. "I'm really not liking this," she said, flinging the pen she was holding in a huff.

Clint looked up to see where it had landed and instead of seeing an eye-searingly pink wall and some chipped tile floor, he was looking at a pair of broad chests and smiling faces. "Aw, but I dressed up nice for you and everything. Thor, you said this shade of blue brings out my eyes."

"It does," Thor assured him, fishing the pen out of the folds of his grubby denim jacket and handing it back to Jan with a flourish.

The blue sweater Steve was wearing was the one Clint had given him. Steve was obviously there to trade back for his jacket Clint head meant to fix... The one that hadn't even been enough whole fabric to turn into a dust rag.

"Sorry about your jacket," Clint said. "It was too late, there's nothing anyone could have done."

Steve laughed. "Yeah, I assumed I was never going to see that old rag again. It served me well, but I guess it was time."

"You guys know each other?" Jan sat a little straighter in her chair, like she smelled a good story coming on. Clint nodded, not entirely able to take his eyes off Steve's smile for more than the time it took to blink.

"Oh yeah, Clint's an old friend." Steve gave him a wink, and Clint felt his skin heating up. That crush he didn't have? Yeah, right. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, intelligent or not, but Jan kept talking and saved them from whatever was about to come out of Clint's suddenly-dry mouth.

"I can't believe I didn't know that. Thor's one of my little projects," Jan said with a chuckle. "Right, big guy? Well, I say 'little project', but you know what I mean." Next to Thor, Jan looked like a school girl.

Thor nodded. "Janet is incredibly helpful. You're lucky to work with her."

"Looks like you're healing up pretty well," Steve said, motioning to Clint's face. "How are your ribs?"

"They're great, you healed me just fine." Clint turned and started rummaging through a rack of winter coats, looking for something that would fit either of the guys.

"Aww, Steve is your doctor-friend?" Jan nudged Clint with her elbow, pulling a red coat off the next rack and throwing it to Thor. "Try that. Steve, what's your specialty?"

Clint turned just in time to see Steve drive a quick elbow into Thor's side. "Pediatrics. Came in handy with Clint here. What a squirmer."

"Aww, did you get a lollipop?" Jan asked. Clint's hand was clenched around a sleeve, trying not to remember in vivid detail who was squirming that night and when and why.

"No. I think I was cheated." He was staring at the coat in front of him, because if he looked over at Steve now, he would probably die of embarrassment. Maybe Thor already knew what they'd gotten up to once they'd left the shantytown that night, but Jan didn't, and she didn't ever need to. Ignoring the fact that it probably wasn't exactly ethical to sleep around in the demographic he normally worked with, especially if Steve and Thor frequented the centre, but Jan was... Jan. Clint thought it would just be weird.

Clint dragged a coat off a hanger and pressed it to his hands before anyone could make any jokes about sucking lollipops or anything else. "Not fair, I'm working," he muttered under his breath.

"Meet me later?" Steve asked, all innocent smiles that Clint didn't buy for a second. "I'll let you buy me a coffee at the place next to the yarn store on Connor."

Clint couldn't, or didn't know how, to argue with that. "Sure. Eight o'clock?"

Steve nodded. "Hey, and would you look at that. It fits." He zipped the coat up and maybe it was a little tight, but he grinned anyway like it was the most perfect thing he'd ever received. "This is perfect. How's yours?"

Thor was smiling too, examining the stitching inside his new coat. "It fits well, thank you. How much do we owe you?"

Clint shrugged. "It's pay what you can. What do you guys think is fair?"

Steve and Thor conferred for a moment. "Here's what we can afford," Thor said. He dropped some money on the table. "And is it okay for us to tell some of our friends and compatriots about this?"

"Of course!" Clint couldn't help the smile spreading across his face. His idea was a success, and how. It felt pretty good.

"We'll let you get back to work, just wanted to stop by and say hello. Oh, and Clint. I, um... Drew this for you." Steve dropped a folded up piece of paper next to the bills on the desk.

He flashed his million-watt smile at Jan. "Thanks, both of you."

"Indeed, most lovely to see you both again. Are we going to meet on Thursday like planned, Miss Janet?"

"Sure thing! Two o'clock?"

Thor agreed, and with a nod to Clint, left with Steve.

"They're such nice guys. Are you working with Steve or something? I've been trying to get him to come in for a while now. Maybe he just needed the right incentive."

Clint had never really considered himself proper incentive for anything before, but really, he'd experienced a lot of things in the last week he hadn't ever counted on.

Jan took the money and put it in the lock box, and looked on with interest while Clint unfolded the drawing Steve left for him. It was a split second too late that Clint thought to hide it from her, in case it was something pornographic.

"Ooh, that's so cute!"

It was not risqué, thank God; it was a cartoon of Clint and Steve high fiving in front of a statue of Abraham Lincoln. They were both wearing stovepipe hats and long false beards.

Clint chuckled. "Wow, so classy."

"Easily the most adorable thing I've seen all week. And I have a new kitten at home." Jan took the drawing from Clint's hands and took a closer look. "Too cute."

Clint spent the rest of the day trying to hide his grin.

* * *

Eight o'clock came and went and Steve didn't show. Clint checked that he had the right place twice, and checked the time about twice a minute. Around quarter after nine, he slid his jacket on and left.

He spent the bus ride back to his apartment telling himself he wasn't disappointed.

* * *

In the days that followed, Clint tried not to look at the picture pinned over his desk. Because he was trying not to look, of course that meant he couldn't tear his eyes off it.

So, instead of imagining Steve working on it, he tried to focus on the lines and the shading. Clint didn't imagine Steve bent over the paper, closing his eyes and smiling faintly when he tried to remember the arch of Clint's cheekbones or the way his hair fell against his forehead. Clint just saw pencil smudges on the paper, not on Steve's chin where he touched it absently while working.

Clint ended up memorizing every goddamn detail of that picture without trying to within the first day or so. And yeah, it was as cute as Jan kept insisting it was, but more than that, Clint thought it was good. Like, very technically proficient. Steve was a pretty decent artist. Jan's question about Steve being one of his clients for the Off The Street program echoed in the back of Clint's head.

He shook his head to clear it and start going over the case file in his hand. Steve obviously didn't want anything from Clint.

Clint got up to refill his water bottle from the cooler in the hall. Jan had an appointment coming in and Clint liked to be out of the office for those. He stopped in at the clothing bank, staffed by volunteers from the Rotary Club, to check on things, but they didn't need an extra set of hands, so he went to the reception desk and let the stressed-out office assistant take a cigarette and coffee break.

"Clint, hello."

He looked up from the very much work related game of Minesweeper. "Oh, hey Thor. Here for your appointment with Jan?"

"Yes, is she in her office?" Thor leaned on the desk, his winter coat making a sliding sound across the laminate surface.

"Should be, let me call her." Clint clicked a few more squares on Minesweeper and blew himself up, hitting a new all-time personal failure high of sixteen for sixteen.

While Clint waited for Jan to pick up her phone, he tried not to notice how Thor was staring at him.

"What's up, man?"

"Nothing particular."

For nothing particular, Thor seemed pretty intent on staring at Clint until his eyes fell out. "You sure?"

Thor sighed heavily, like a man wearied by the weight of the world. "Steve doesn't have many friends, though he's well liked by everyone who knows him. I don't believe he has many friends he talks to about... well, anything, really."

"Sure he does -- Hi, Jan, Thor's here for your two o'clock, should I send him up? ... Okay, I'll tell him. She'll be ready for you in about ten minutes, she's on a conference call that's running long."

"Of course." Thor pulled a chair across the foyer (generally not allowed, but Clint didn't care all that much, as long as the chairs weren't being thrown) and sat down with his elbows on the desk, looking Clint in the eye.

"Anyway, he has friends," Clint said. He wanted to finish the conversation about Steve before Thor sighed again, because it just made Clint want to reach across the table and console him, and Thor was like, six foot nine and a thousand pounds of muscle, so that would just be ridiculous. "He's got you, right?"

"Yes, that's true. But everyone could use another friend, Clint. He seemed very taken by you and talked about you frequently in the days after that night."

"Has he mentioned me lately?" Clint felt stupid for asking, because it was supposed to sound challenging and very 'fuck you and fuck him', but it sounded more whiny and self-absorbed than anything else.

"He told me he was going to meet you Tuesday night. I know he didn't."

Clint nodded. "Right. If he blew me off, I guess he think he doesn't need any more friends."

"It is more complicated than that. You should come by our place and talk to him, at least."

"Sure, whatever," Clint said. He wasn't sure why his heart rate had sped up, or why he was gripping the computer mouse so tight. He had already decided he didn't care what Steve chose to do or not do, so the feelings he was still having were just lingering, taking their time to fade. They'd be gone soon enough. Yeah, that was exactly logical. Good thinking, Barton.

"I'll admit, it feels a little... shady, talking about him behind his back. But I felt it was important to say." Thor pushed his chair away with a scrape and headed for the stairs with only a nod.

Clint was left with a lot of thoughts.

* * *

Clint turned the collar of his coat up against the wind. He was stupid for going out the warehouse again. He was stupid for a lot of reasons. He also got turned around about four times and jumped when a cat startled him. Walking alone at night in Red Side had taken on sinister vibe, putting him on edge.  
He shouldered his way through the heavy door and stopped just inside, trying to get his bearings. It was barely any brighter than it had been outside, and he was really trying to ignore the smell.

Someone nearby was in the midst of a fit, the sound like coughing around a mouthful of wet gravel, and that brought him back in the worst way.

He walked over to the sheet in the corner. "Uh. Knock, knock?"

No answer, but there was definitely someone back there. "Steve? It's Clint. I, uh... Can I come in and talk to you?"

"Steve's not here, mate." The sheet was pulled back suddenly and Clint was eye to eye with someone he didn't recognize. The guy had some wild, shaggy hair going on, and a cold look that made Clint feel a bit dirty. He looked out of place in this warehouse, too clean and smooth looking, buttoning a dark silk shirt over his bare chest.

"Sorry, I just thought..."

"Clint, hello," Thor said, stepping halfway out of the shadows and standing at the stranger's elbow. He was naked.

"Hey, I... Wow. I mean! I didn't mean wow like _wow!_ I just meant... Wow." It took a second to pry his eyes away -- not for any reason other than the fact that he was just plain impressed. Clint stared up at the ceiling, because the ceiling didn't have a half-hard dick and a large reserve of nonchalance about it.

"Yeah, wow indeed. And it's all yours," said the stranger. Clint looked away from the ceiling just in time to see the guy press a roll of bills into Thor's hand. With a nod to Thor and not even a second look at Clint, he left.

The light bulb went on in Clint's head. "...Oh. _Oh._ "

"Would you like to come in?" Thor asked. He was still totally nonchalant about his package hanging all out. Or he had just forgotten it was there, but that seemed damn unlikely.

"Um. Yes, do you have pants?"

"Of course, I have -- ah, yes, I should get dressed." Even in his naked state, Clint noted that the money had disappeared awful quickly. It was one thing to do that when you have three or four layers and long sleeves, but to do it in nothing but skin... Thor obviously had an impressive array of skills.

"So... He a friend of yours?" Clint wasn't sure what kind of conversation he was supposed to make while Thor bent over to rummage through the blankets strewn on the couch.

"Someone I've known for a long time. A client now, I suppose."

"You mean a john?"

Thor found his underwear and slid them on before turning around to look at Clint. His usual smile was gone and he was actually really intimidating when he frowned like that, Clint was discovering. The fact that he was standing there in his boxers really helped though. "Why do you ask that?"

Clint shrugged, trying to keep his face impassive. He wasn't sure what exactly he might be showing, but he didn't want to show anything, really. Thor's life was his business. "Just curious. I'm not here to condemn you or anything, man."

"Then yes, he's 'a john.'"

They stared at each other for a few seconds in the low light until Thor wrapped the blanket from the couch around himself and sat down, motioning for Clint to join him.

"So."

"So. Look, I know it's not my place --"

"I know it's your job to be concerned for me, Clint, and I thank you for whatever you're going to say, but --"

"Wait, what?"

"Pardon?"

They traded awkward looks. "I assume if you wanted my professional advice, you would have made an appointment. Besides, I think Jan has all that covered right?"

"Yes, she's very kind."

"Exactly. So you know all the resources and help out there for... someone in your position."

Thor nodded. "Or any of my positions, really."

Clint winced. "Thanks, dude, I needed that visual." He took a second to scrub that from his brain and continued. "So. I know it's not my business, but where's Steve tonight?"

Thor looked deeply uncomfortable for a moment before shrugging and looking away.

That was enough of a dead giveaway. So. That was thing Steve had never mentioned. The money for sex/sex for money thing. "Right," Clint said, unsure what else he could say. He stood to leave. "Uh. I guess... let him know I was here."

"Clint, wait --"

Clint left before Thor could say anything else, reasonable sure he wouldn't chase him out into the streets in nothing but an old blanket. _There's no way he'll follow me, there's no way my life could be that much of a train wreck._ He rounded the corner out of the alley and back onto the street and ran headlong into Steve.

So, yeah, exactly that much of a train wreck then.

"Hi! Hey you."

"Hey," Clint said. He felt pretty damn miserable. What was he supposed to say? There was no going back for him now, no turning off the knowledge he had that Steve had sex with strangers for money and that they had had sex together. That was sort of a point of no return, Clint knew that for sure. What he was still hopelessly fucking clueless about was how he was feeling about the knowledge he couldn't do anything about.

"Are you in a hurry somewhere?" Steve asked. He looked genuinely happy to see Clint. Clint assumed he'd been hiding away, dodging their so-called date because he didn't want Clint to find out about his real life, but now, of course, Clint knew that wasn't true.

Steve didn't seem like the kind of guy who could ever be ashamed of his prostitution. Either it was what he wanted, and therefore wouldn't apologize, or for him it was just a job, so he shouldn't have to apologize. Not that Clint was even looking for an apology or an explanation, but Steve telling him the fucking truth would have been nice.

Clint shifted back and forth on his feet a little. He was hoping Steve would just let him pass, let this stupid thing, whatever it was, just die here in the street. He wanted to stop thinking about it -- about Steve -- because the whole damn situation has got him so confused. Steve's stupid, earnest, perfect smile was not helping. "Heading home," he said. Simple was best. Simple was all he could manage.

"I'll walk with you. I wanted to apologize for missing our... date thing, the other night."

"No problem. I just assumed you were too busy."

"Oh, hey, don't be mad at me," Steve said, bumping his shoulder against Clint's. Clint felt a jolt, like something coming loose inside him, when Steve touched him, even through all the layers of clothing. He didn't want to be mad, he wanted... who the fuck actually knew, but not to be angry.

Clint started walking, Steve right beside him. It looked like they were going to do this then. There's no way Clint was going to make it all the way back to his apartment without saying 'oh, so were you planning on telling me you were a prostitute?' It was one of those things a person so rarely got to say that holding the words back might be very dangerous to a guy's health and science wouldn't even know about it. Clint wasn't going to risk some horrible unknown side effect.

"I'm not," he said, even if it felt like a lie.

Steve continued on, evidently oblivious. "Good. So tell me about your week. How's work? How's Jan?"

"Work's fine. Not really supposed to talk about it. Jan is... chatty as hell."

"A quality I guess you don't share at the moment? Look, Clint, I get I stood you up, and trust me, I'm not overly happy about it either. Let me buy you a coffee or something to make up for it." Steve held out his hand and Clint suddenly thought of the scene from Aladdin where he asks Princess Jasmine to trust him. Clint wasn't sure he wanted this whole new world, especially considering it bore a stark resemblance to the world Clint was constantly trying to forget he had been a part of.

But there was Steve's smile again, that bright, genuine smile, those familiar, kissable lips and the hint of straight, white teeth. Clint nodded and settled himself in for the ride.

They stopped at a little coffee cart just before the park at Steve's insistence. It wasn't as good as the Starbucks Jan brought him, but it was hot and it warmed his hands up, so Clint took it. He had to look away when Steve dug a crumpled ten dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the coffee guy with a smile.

"That was a nice tip you gave him," Clint said as they walked away.

Steve's smile never wavered. Clint was beginning to suspect it was pasted on. Which made sense; it looked like something that could have been clipped from a magazine. "Pay it forward," he said with a shrug. "That guy doesn't have the best job, I don't think, just waiting around in the cold for someone to stop by. Must be lonely and boring."

"Not the best job," Clint said. The universe was playing a big joke on him and he was finally starting to find it funny. He knew it wasn't the smart reaction, but he chuckled anyway.

"What's funny?"

"No, no. Nothing," Clint said. If they were going to fight about it, he didn't want to fight on the street.

They walked up to the gates to Abraham Lincoln Park. Steve pushed his coffee cup into Clint's free hand so he could bend over to pick the lock. He looked over his shoulder at Clint. "I know you disapprove of the breaking and entering, but I promise we'll leave the park as we found it." He gave Clint another smile and a wink. Clint felt a heat unrelated to the two coffees he was holding.

"Speaking of working, since you brought it up," he said, a little too loudly. He could feel the words bubbling in his chest, threatening to come out on their own accord. "You know what I do, the kinds of things I know about and can help with. You ever considered, you know, getting off the street? I could help you, you know."

Steve shrugged, taking his coffee back. "Thought about it plenty, I guess. Things... don't ever seem to work out the way I plan though."

"That's where I come in. I'm pretty good at plans. We could work something out." Clint wanted Steve to just agree with him. He wanted Steve to tell him he was right, that he wanted help, that living on the street wasn't how he wanted to spend his life. But then part of Clint just wanted Steve to tell him to fuck off, to tell him he was being a sanctimonious prick, and Steve didn't need his advice or his pity.

"Yeah," Steve said. "In a perfect world, maybe. How's your coffee?"

"Bitter. Jaded. And obviously not telling me something."

Steve laughed, the noise echoing around them under the trees in the park, startling Clint a little. "Yeah, I guess, but at least it's hot?"

Clint groaned. "Yeah. But sometimes I want a little more from my hot beverages."

Steve faltered a step before linking his arm through Clint's. "Well, that's your problem right there. High expectations. You can't expect much from coffee you found on a street corner. It might not even be coffee."

Clint thought about that for a second. "I think this is all starting to go over my head."

"I just mean maybe it's not something you want to look to closely at. It looks like coffee, but there could be anything in there."

"... Ew," Clint said. He tossed his random cart coffee into the next garbage bin they passed. "Whatever, I'm not thirsty. But really. If I didn't want the coffee... the metaphorical coffee, I mean, I wouldn't have invited it into my bedroom. Or even let it walk me home, for that matter."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I just need the coffee to... tell me what's going on. I don't like being left out of the loop."

"Especially not when it comes to bedroom coffee."

Clint nodded. "Exactly. So. Do you think coffee has anything to say for itself?"

They were once again in front of the statue of Abraham Lincoln when Steve stopped walking. He set his coffee cup down on the edge of the statue's base. "You ever heard the quote 'a lie told often enough becomes the truth'?"

"Yeah, once or twice. What, did he say that?" Clint motioned to the stone Abe standing in front of them.

Steve laughed. "No, no. I think it was Lenin or something. I just really like that quote. Or I hate it. Either way, I think it's pretty true."

"Yeah, I guess in a way it is. I've never really been a Beatles fan."

Steve gave him a long look, the smile slowly fading off his face. He sighed, finally, and turned to face Clint, leaning against the statue's base like they had on the first night. "I really don't know what you want me to tell you right now, Clint. You found out that I have sex with strangers for money, that that's where I was when I missed our date the other day? And you're... You're what now?"

He finally said it out loud. Clint didn't think he was going to say it. He also didn't think he was going to be so matter-of-fact about it. But Steve's question didn't seem rhetorical. "Uh...?"

"I mean how do you feel? Disgusted, angry, ready to call the police, what?"

"Hurt," Clint said, finding his voice. "Betrayed."

"Yeah, there's a good one, forgot that in my list." Steve laughed, and for the first time, Clint didn't like hearing it. It didn't set butterflies off in his stomach like the rest of Steve's laughing or the smiles that lit up his eyes. It was cold, short. Sharp. Clint was sure it could cut. He braced himself for whatever was going to come next, fight or flight or both.

"Hey, but not for the reasons you think, though. Just. I don't care one way or the other, seriously, but why wouldn't you tell me?"

"Because it didn't seem relevant. Because there was a lot going on that first night and telling you how I earn enough to feed myself didn't seem as important as telling you that I've never been happier for someone to invite me back to his place. Or you're the most incredible kisser I've ever met. I don't get kissed a lot, if you can imagine." Steve didn't break eye contact the entire time he was talking.

Clint had been ready for whatever anger, abuse or sarcasm Steve had to throw at him, but he had not been ready for that much... honesty. Openness. Whatever it was.

"Yeah, well..."

"Well nothing," Steve said. He held Clint's gaze for a few extra seconds until Clint was forced to look away.

"Look, I'm not... I don't..." Clint sighed, long suffering and hating himself for not being able to get a single thought out coherently.

"Just walk away, if it's that much of a problem."

"Would you just stop being so hostile?" Clint snapped. "I'm not going anywhere until I've said my piece, but you might need to wait a minute, because I'm not as eloquent as you."

Steve crossed his arms and stared expectantly. He was tense in his shoulder and chest, wrists flexing, like he was just as geared up for a fight as Clint was.

Clint took a steadying breath, hoping to lead by example. "I don't care what you do for a living. I don't care why or how you ended up on the street. I'm really not big on living in the past. You know, you and I aren't all that different. I grew up on the streets in a big, ugly city like this. I did shit I wasn't overly fond of to stay alive. So don't pretend that you have the corner on taking whatever jobs you come by so you can see tomorrow. And don't assume you know how I'm going to react to the truth, either."

"...Have the corner? What, is that some kind of whore joke?"

Clint threw his hands up in exasperation. "What? No! No, I would never make that kind of joke. Jesus, Steve. I just meant --" 

"I know that, you're not that much of a prick. I was trying to inject humour into a tricky situation. Did it work?" Steve chuckled weakly, rubbing his hand across his forehead.

"Nope," Clint said. Actually, it had knocked the wind out of him a little. He closed his eyes and took a few more deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again, Steve was watching him closely. "What?"

"You said you were a street kid. For how long?"

"From when I was about six until I was twenty-two. Off and on, I mean, but..." he trailed off. Clint always tensed up, looked away, tried everything he could think of to not tell these stories. He hated this part of his life, even if it was so inescapably part of who he was now. He didn't like dwelling on it, didn't like thinking about it. And yet, here he was, telling Steve whatever he wanted to know. Steve, who was watching him still, eyes never flicking away. Clint found he was willing to share this part of his life, and he didn't feel sick for doing it.

He actually felt better.

"What did you do?" The unspoken 'were you a prostitute?' hung in the air.

Clint shook his head. "I used to run for some gangs, helped the guy who patched them up when they got hurt. Not the kids who ran errands, but the actual gang members. No one gave a rat's ass if we got hurt. I tried to get out. Travelled around with a circus if you can believe it." Clint frowned, remembering the old days. "But the same kind of shit found me there," he said darkly.

The words lingered between them. Steve said nothing and Clint couldn't think of anything more to add. Hope, he decided after a moment. There had been hope for him, and he could give some to Steve, maybe. "It took a long, long time to claw my way out of that life, but here I am now."

Steve just watched him as he talked, nodding slowly, some deep, unfathomable look on his face.

"That's... that's my story," Clint finished. He felt a rush of heat in his cheeks, suddenly so aware how much he'd just said.

"Thank you for sharing that," Steve said quietly. He picked up his coffee cup again, even though it must have been nearly frozen by that point. "It can't have been easy."

"I did okay, all things considered. Stronger for it now. A better guy, I think."

"You are. You're a very good guy. But I meant telling me can't have been easy."

Clint couldn't escape those eyes. So calm and collected and brightly blue. He couldn't figure out what Steve was seeing, and why Steve looked so... sad.

"I... did okay," Clint said again.

"I couldn't do that. I've tried, but I can't."

Clint was beginning to understand. "So. That's why you didn't tell me."

"Yeah, pretty much. You might not be judgmental or hateful or aggressive, but so many people are. I don't like taking those chances if I don't have to. We don't know even each other, Clint." Steve crossed his arms across his chest, holding Clint's gaze for far longer than Clint was comfortable with, though he found himself unable to look away from those blue eyes.

"Not well enough for you to trust me."

Steve didn't say anything, but then, he didn't really need to.

"So. Where does that leave us?" Stupid question, but Clint hated the silence stretching out between them, darker than the shadows between the trees or the bruises almost faded on his ribs.

"Do you have to know every little thing? Can you be okay with the fact that I don't want your help and that I don't actually hate my job, even if it's not what I dreamed of doing when I was growing up?"

"Yeah," Clint said. He suddenly regretted throwing out his coffee, because his throat was feeling dry and he was afraid his voice was about to crack. "I mean, I guess I can try. But if this is going to be something, anything, I need you to trust me a little, at least. Give me something."

Steve laughed, soft and sad. "It's going to take me a while to get there."

"Tell what you wanted to be. When you were a kid, what did you want to do?" Clint heard the sound of the wind rustling what was left of the leaves in the trees, the muffled sounds of traffic, a siren in a far-off part of the city, but nothing from Steve.

Steve moved suddenly, sliding right up against his body and leaning in for a kiss. Clint opened up and let him, resting a hand on Steve's shoulder. Once Steve was close -- breath so hot against his lips compared to the air around them -- Clint's fingers dug in, seeking out more contact, drawing Steve in.

It wasn't like their first kiss under the Abraham Lincoln statue. It wasn't unexpected or awkward, and it certainly wasn't over in a blink. Clint could feel his heart pounding in his chest when Steve dipped his head, was so sure Steve would feel it too with not an inch between them when their lips finally met.

Caught up in the moment, the heat and the taste of Steve's mouth and the slow slide of tongues over lips and the quick catch here and there of teeth, Clint barely noticed Steve's knee between his or the way Steve was taking over his space and making it his own. He brushed his finger tips over Steve's cheek, not really feeling it because exposed skin and forty degree temperatures didn't mix, but Steve groaned into his mouth, pulling Clint by the hips as if there was a way they could get closer.

It ended, because it had to, and Clint made a little whimper that he would be ashamed of later if the thought occurred to him.

"I don't think this is going to work out," Steve said, leaning his forehead against Clint's. "One of us is from the wrong side of the tracks."

"Yeah."

"With a kiss like that, sometimes you can pretend for a while, but..."

"Yeah." Clint didn't trust himself to say anything else. He knew he would crumble, he would ask Steve into his bed again, he would spend way too much of himself, and they'd both get hurt because Steve was right. It was doomed before it had even started.

"I should get home. I'm freezing my ass off."

Steve kissed him again, one quick, firm kiss on the lips. "And that would be a downright shame. Goodnight, Clint. Thanks for... Well. Good night just the same."

"You too."

Clint was a full fifteen steps away before he turned and ran back, catching up to Steve and pulling him around by the arm. "Here, take this. It's the community centre contact card. It's got my work number on it, and the emergency number. This one has my cell number on the back. I promise I'll start remembering to charge it. If you need anything, ever, or if Thor does, or even if you just need someone to vent at, call me. Or come find me. You know where I am." He didn't say 'if you change your mind'. Clint didn't believe for a second that Steve was the kind of guy who ever changed his mind. One hundred percent commitment, and nothing less.

Steve had that smile again, that stupid, butterflies and a touch of vertigo smile. "Thank you. I'll hang onto this."

"I... Good."

They didn't say goodbye again. Clint didn't think there was such a thing as a good goodbye anyway. They all hurt like hell and this was no exception.

He took a second for himself, looking up at the statue of Lincoln. He didn't turn around to check, but he stood there until he couldn't hear Steve's footsteps anymore.

"I should get home," he told himself, because he knew Lincoln didn't care. But still he lingered by the statue, because as awful as goodbyes were as they happened, they were so much worse when they were finally over.


	2. Epilogue

Clint won another round of Spider Solitaire. The night shift case worker had scarlet fever and Jan had beaten him at seven out of thirteen rounds of Rock Paper Scissors. So here he was, the third of four double shifts. He sipped his terrible coffee and started another round of cards.

It wasn't like he was slacking off or anything. All his paperwork was done and he wasn't supposed to leave the front desk. They kept the doors locked and had a buzzer so that anyone who came in would have to sign the logbook before they could go into the shelter part of the building. They didn't ask for full names, or even real names, but they needed to keep some kind of record. Clint manned the desk, the buzzer, and the book.

There were only two more staff members -- attendants in the sleeping area -- and a handful of volunteers in the building, plus whoever had signed in. But no one up in the centre for him to talk to.

Clint screwed himself out of winning the game and restarted with a sigh when the buzzer went off. He pressed the unlock button for the doors and minimized the game. He stood, leaning forward over the desk to greet the newcomer.

"Hey," Steve said, pink cheeked and breathless from the cold.

"Hey," Clint said. 

"Is there somewhere warm I could stay for tonight?"

Clint nodded. His mouth was suddenly dry and he didn't think it had anything to do with whatever chemicals were in the swap water coffee. Wordlessly, Clint pushed the sign in book and a pen across the desk.

Steve signed with a little flourish, holding the pen out for Clint to take. When Clint grabbed onto it, Steve didn't let go. Their eyes met after a second.

"I wanted to be a police officer," Steve said seriously. "When I was a kid. You... you asked."

"I remember," Clint said. He was so goddamn thankful his voice didn't crack like he was sure it was going to. "I, uh... You can stay here tonight, we have plenty of room. But tomorrow, we can talk and if -- if you need a warm place to stay long term..."

"Tomorrow then." Steve finally released the pen and gave Clint a smile that, as fucking cliché as Clint knew it sounded, seemed to light up the room. It wasn't even a big smile; no gleaming teeth or crinkly eyes, just a quirk of the lips and the hint of dimples, and Clint had to smile in return.

As they stood on opposite sides of the table and watched each other awkwardly, both presumably trying to figure out what came between _right then_ and _tomorrow_ , Clint realized maybe bad coffee was a lot better than he had been giving it credit for.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for AU Big Bang 2012, with art by king_stitch. Check out [the masterpost](http://sunspot.dreamwidth.org/33871.html) for links.
> 
> Thanks to tsukinofaerii for betaing, thanks to road_rhythm for fixing my smut when it broke, thanks to Chat for putting up with my whining and my watching EMH on repeat and shouting all my favourite lines (that's all of them of course) at them for the last four months.


End file.
